


The Library Cats

by aquabluejay



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cats, Gen, Herding Cats, that one AU where the Library has always been home to feral cats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabluejay/pseuds/aquabluejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For almost a month John doesn’t even know that they have cats. He later realizes that they must have been hiding from him, but nonetheless feels somehow that he should have suspected sooner.</i>
</p><p>  The Library came with cats. Nathan tried to get rid of them, but in the end Harold learned to embrace them. John finds a certain irony in the situation.<br/>A POI AU in which everything is the same except the library is home to a multitude of stray and semi-feral cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Nathan

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even really remember how I started writing this, but I love "What If" stories, so here's a small one.

              The library was old, and having languished in disuse for years, poorly cared for. Virtually every corner was riddles with gaps, crevices, and crumbling drywall; broken window panes, old woodwork, and loose latches. There were innumerable places for things to get out, or in.

              Nathan first discovered the cats when he entered the library for the first time. He caught flashes of tails vanishing around bookcase corners and the glint of pale eyes around what books that remained on the shelves, (and on one memorable occasion, the rafters where a section of ceiling tile had fallen in) dogged his steps through the building. One particularly bold cat strutted across the open floor while he was setting up his equipment, and that was the final straw. With much yelling, and other angry noises that eventually bordered on hissing, he chased out all the cats. He threw bits of tile and splintered wood, and even some of the scattered books after them (Harold would have cringed), letting them know in no uncertain terms that they were no longer welcome.

              With liberal application of duct tape and some broken down boxes he found in a back room, he closed up all the entryways he saw the cats making for as he chased them and the precious few he could find on his own. Nathan was not a cat person. He didn’t hate them or wish them any harm, he simply preferred dogs. Frankly, he just wanted to be alone with his work in the Library.

              The next day he had a sudden insight about the cats, and regretted his hasty actions a bit. His work was unexpectedly interrupted by an emboldened mouse scampering across the edge of the table he’d set up his computer one. He stopped by a hardware store on his way home that evening, and on his next visit to the Library, placed several mouse traps strategically around the upper floors.

 


	2. Part 2 - Harold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold did not know about the cats when he first visited the library, having followed Nathan. By the time he discovered the secret workspace Nathan had long since succeeded in driving out most of the cats, or at least they’d gotten the message to stay away and well out of sight when he was in.

            Harold did not know about the cats when he first visited the library, having followed Nathan. By the time he discovered the secret workspace Nathan had long since succeeded in driving out most of the cats, or at least they’d gotten the message to stay away and well out of sight when he was in.

            It wasn’t until he returned weeks later, when so much had changed, that he began to see the signs. He was physically and emotionally broken, his hope and trust shattered, and the life he’d made for himself in shambles. Nathan, his only friend was dead. Grace was lost to him forever for her own safety. The numbers were all that mattered after that.

He built onto the minimal set up Nathan had installed. Only realizing that perhaps he’d gotten a little carried away when he stepped back from his completed desk space, dominated by no less than _five_ LCD monitors.

The cats steered clear of his graceless, crutch-aided entrance, sensing the turmoil in the latest visitor to the Library and choosing to keep their distance until they could get a better read on this new occupant. Perhaps he would be just as unwelcoming as the bigger, louder man who’d come before, perhaps not.

            A few more weeks passed and Harold had undergone spinal surgery and begun physical therapy for his injuries. His neck was still supported by a soft neck brace and twanged painfully when he tried to twist it suddenly to get a better look at the pair of golden eyes he glimpsed on top of one of the bookshelves. By the time he managed to maneuver himself into a position where he could look properly, the eyes were long gone. However, he did spot a grey tale vanishing down the steps to the lower level. Over the next several days Harold began to see more and more signs that the Library was home and hunting grounds to at least four cats- possibly more since he often only caught glimpses and wasn’t always sure of which cat it was.

            Once, disturbed from a fit of despair and self-loathing by the soft thump of a cat jumping from a height shelf to the floor, Harold tried to chase them from the Library. Hindered by his injuries, he only succeeded in earning a few startled looks and a throbbing pain in his leg and neck. His efforts left him spent and sprawled across one of the Library’s dusty reading couches for the rest of the evening.

            That was when he first met Charlotte.

            Her approach was completely silent except for the soft and deliberate sounding click of her claws against the tiled floor. Harold shifted on the couch so that he could look across the room. The cat approached with liquid grace, steps even and effortless in a way that he envied, thinking of his newly acquired limp. Her eyes were a mesmerizing jade green and remained fixed unblinkingly on him. She skirted the wall as she crossed the room, taking her time in getting closer. She slowed and stopped when she drew within twenty feet of the couch, sat back on her haunches and simply watched him. Her ears were set forward with interest, though the rest of her small, whiskered face remained bland and impassive, the default of cat’s the world over or so he’d heard.

Exhausted and hurting, Harold let out a great sigh and did the only thing he could muster the energy for. He stretched out his left arm, letting it dangle off the couch in the cat’s direction.

She narrowed her eyes with feline suspicion, but to his surprise, stood and came closer. She did not come straight to him, choosing instead to circle around in front of the couch before settling again, just out of reach. Harold stretched his fingers a bit farther and she tilted her head forward to sniff them curiously.

He nearly jumped when she meowed at him and could only watch confusedly as she turned gracefully and sauntered away. She vanished into the stacks the way she had come, leaving Harold to his thoughts until he could muster the resolve to move from his position on the couch.

Over the next few days, he saw more and more of the cats, still mostly through sidelong glances, around or over his monitors as he worked, but noticeably more. They came and went with a certain kind of regularity, following some kind of routine known only to themselves, but apparently also subject to momentary whims, like pausing halfway across the floor to lay in a shaft of sunlight from a window, or doubling back to bat at a dust bunny that had strayed out into the open. Harold had never had a cat and finally gave in to his curiosity and opened another browser window on one of his monitors and conducted some cursory research into feral and stray cats.

The grey cat appeared beside his desk on a Thursday afternoon, ostensibly scoping out a patch of sunshine in the area, but sneaking glances and pointing ears in his direction too often to keep up the pretext of ignoring him. She sat half-in, half-out of the sunshine and fixed him with her green gaze again. Harold stopped typing and rested his hands on the table edge, rotating his chair slightly towards her, rather than turning his head. After a long moment she broke eye contact and began washing her paw. Harold watched as she continued through a whole routine of bathing, stretching in improbable contortions that would have made him wince, even before his injuries had vastly reduced his mobility and flexibility.

When she was done, she spread herself out on the sun warmed tile, rested her head on her paws and closed her eyes, all without sparing him another glance. Harold couldn’t decide it was a gesture of trust, or just that fabled feline indifference so often referred to. He returned to his work and remained undistracted by the comings and goings of his pawed company for the rest of the evening. As he gathered his things to head home for the night, he noticed that the grey cat had left silently at some point, possibly when the sun had shifted off her.

By the end of the week he had named her Charlotte. He knew the dangers of naming animals and of attachment, but well…. She certainly seemed to be sticking around and it was just as well, since he couldn’t have just kept calling her “the grey cat”, in light of later developments.

Two weeks after his first encounter with Charlotte, she had made a regular habit of appearing most afternoons to lounge in the sun patch near his desk for a few hours, until it had completely shifted off of her, or else some other thing caught her attention and needed to be investigated. Once or twice she had startled awake when Harold had rolled his chair back to get up and retrieve something. On the one occasion that he’d rounded the side of the desk nearest to her, she’d stood and walked away casually, as though trying to prove that the decision to get up had nothing to do with him.

One day, she didn’t come alone.

That afternoon as Charlotte approached she was followed by a second grey cat, slightly smaller and with different markings. As they drew closer Harold noted that it was precisely the same shade of grey as Charlotte’s coat.  She gave one of hr rare, short meows of greeting before settling into her usual sot, lying down. She did not lower her head though, opting to continue watching Harold instead. The new arrival cam a few feet closer than her, tilting its head up to survey Harold with marked interest.

“Well hello there,” Harold spoke softly, leaning ginger to one side to address Charlotte around the other cat. “Is this one of yours then? I had wondered if you had any kittens wandering about.” Charlotte simply yawned widely at him, before settling down to her nap.

Indeed the newcomer had Charlotte’s coloring, but where she was short haired and sleek with long legs, the other was longer haired and slightly smaller overall. Charlotte had a white patch under her jaw and at the tip of her tail, but was otherwise, a uniform steely grey. The newcomer bore the same white under his chin, and upon closer inspection, had an almost identical face, but his front paws were also bright white, looking like little socks. He also had subtle tabby stripes that showed as a darker, charcoal grey running across his brow, down his front legs and over his back and tail, darkening towards his tips. His whiskers twitched under Harold’s scrutiny and he blinked his (still kitten-large) golden eyes once before taking a nervous step towards Harold’s chair.

Hours later, watching the new grey cat sleep in the sound beside Charlotte, who was doubtlessly his mother, Harold thought he might call him Quentin - _from the Queen’s estate_.

Within the week Quentin had not only become comfortable within arm’s reach, but had taken to laying in the empty desk space bellow Harold’s center monitor. He came every day, and not always with his mother. He investigated Harold’s equipment, winding his way around the table legs and the swivel chair’s base in search of imaginary (or sometimes real) prey. One day Harold jumped violently, startling everyone and rattling his keyboard when he felt a brush against his trouser leg. Quentin Streaked out from under the table and into the stacks. But he was back within the hour. He worked his way gradually up from leg nuzzling to sitting behind Harold’s keyboard while Harold moused through some less code-intensive work, having getting his head scratched with a free hand.

Charlotte still kept her distance, but seemed happy enough to leave her son alone with Harold and nap regularly in his presence herself. Over time, the presence of the other cats became more noticeable, seeming to emerge from the woodwork, to stretch themselves over windowsills or perch on book carts. Harold never really thought about getting rid of them after that first day with Charlotte.

The Library cats came and went as they pleased. Harold found some of the places Nathan had sealed, clearly ripped open by diligent claws. He left them as they were, and almost guiltily peeled back one or two strips of peeling duct tape from a couple more.

Careful not to make a habit of it, e would sometimes offer them treats. Most of the cats seemed to subsist on mice and other vermin they hunted in the dusty corners of the stacks and disused rooms of the library, but they were still alley cats, and often looked a little to thin and hungry. Harold may have never owned a cat but he had a tender heart and A scrap of meet that poked out of the end of his pastrami, a piece of hardboiled egg that escaped his egg salad.  Scraps from the sandwiches and takeout he brought back to the library.

He learned to tell them all apart, discovering that there were at least a half-dozen that seemed to trade in and out every few days. He named each one as he identified it. Some were still more friendly or talkative than others, but all of them seemed to just accept the newest addition to the library and just went about their lives unbothered by his presence.

They were not house cats, and most of them did not go out of their way to attract his attention, and would not come close enough to be touched. Some though, had been abandoned or lost and were happy to stay close by. The appreciated friendly human company and would lay on his desk or he’d come back from the bathroom or getting a cup of tea to find one perched on his keyboard or curled on his chair. Always he would relocate them and send them on their way with a gentle pat.


	3. Part 3 - John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three and a half weeks and several numbers after agreeing to work for Finch, he first spots a tail vanishing around the corner of a bookshelf.

            For almost a month John doesn’t even know that they have cats. Finch hadn’t mentioned them either and it isn’t as though there are food and water bowls sitting out in the open. He later realizes that they must have been hiding from him, but nonetheless feels that he should somehow have suspected sooner.

            Three and a half weeks and several numbers after agreeing to work for Finch, he first spots a tail vanishing around the corner of a bookshelf. He’d come in to discuss the latest number with Finch, and decides not to say anything about it. Fully focused on the job, he forgets entirely about it until the evening. He finally returns to the library after resolving a particularly sticky situation when he spots a pair of slanted eyes watching him from a gap in one of the shelves. He continues to feel the sharp gaze tracking him across the library and marking his every movement all though his usual banter with Finch. When he leaves he notices the eyes have vanished and taken the sensation of being watched with them.

            He starts to see more and more of the cats, and is shocked to realize just how many there are. One day it’s a ginger sitting sphinx-like on a side table, the next he spies a striped tabby tail dangling over the side of a high shelf, flicking back and forth. Once, when he returns to the library for a change of shirt, (his formerly very white shirt has had a rather unfortunate encounter with some blood spatter, though luckily not his or the number’s, and there was only so long he can pass it off as a ketchup stain as it dried and steadily darkened.) he discovers two things. One - that Finch is still out in the field working another angle, and two- there is a grey and white tabby sprawled over Finch’s workspace, idly bating his mouse from one side of the table to the other. He wonders if his employer knows that the cats make such use of his precious equipment while he’s out. John smiles as he imagines the scolding expression Finch would give the cat as he plucked the mouse from its paws. Curious to see the reaction Finch will have to his slightly askew (and potentially still cat-infested) equipment upon his return to the Library, John leaves and says nothing.

            When he returns again, much later that evening, he finds Finch, long returned, ensconced in his usual place at the desk. Very unusually though, the grey and white cat from before is lying across Finch’s lap. Finch is absently scratching between the cat’s ears with his free hand while he scrolls though pages and pages of bank documents, double checking that all the loose ends from the days adventure have been tied up. John saunters up to his boss with a predatory grace to rival of the Library’s feline occupants- And the same glint in his eyes said occupants get when they stalked mice in the stacks.

            “Well now Finch, wouldn’t have pegged you as much of a cat person.”

            Finch cocks his head in that very bird like way he has, and eyes him slightly askance.

            “Nor would I, Mr. Reese.” He turns back to his computers, clicks a few more times, deftly types in a string of code and executes it. Without turning back he asks, “What then, if not cats?”

            “Don’t know… Parakeets, maybe?” John answers with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Finch turns his chair around again, facing John with a very unimpressed and slightly exasperated expression.  “What? Burdette, Crane, Partridge? One begins to sense a pattern, _Mr._ _Finch_.”

            “If you must know, Mr. Reese, the cats rather came with the premises. You may have noticed they’re a bit hesitant with you, but don’t worry, it took them a while to warm up to me at first too,” Finch explains, gesturing to the line of book cases as he speaks. When John follows the motion, he spots two sets of eyes watching from the shadows of the shelves.

            “Did they now?” John fairly purrs as he heads towards the bookcases. One cat flees as he approaches, eyes vanishing into the stacks. The other stares him down from the higher shelves, nearly level with his brow. John reaches a hand up towards the shadowed gap in the book spines, but has to quickly withdraw it when a paw swipes out at him from the darkness.

            “Careful, Mr. Reese. I don’t believe they’ve had their shots kept up to date,” Finch admonishes while hiding a smile. John silently agrees. This close he can pick out the shape of the cat from the shadows. It’s a tabby, heavily barred and striped in black over already dark fur (the exact color indistinguishable color in the low light) the overall effect that of a rippling, inky coat that blends into the background as well as any camouflage that John has ever worn.

            The cat raises its head to fix him with a textbook cat-glare, pale green eyes narrowed threateningly. John sees that it has a slightly paler underside, it’s chest and lower neck are marked so that it almost looks like it’s wearing a little tuxedo. Just the sort of cat that people might try to dress up in a little bow tie. “Try”, or course being the operative word in this case, since John very much doubts this cat would ever stand such a thing.

            John’s maternal grandparents had lived on a farm and had kept a tawny mouser in their barn. She had been beautiful to watch prowling, but also foul tempered and extremely secretive. More than once, John’s attempts to play with or even just follow her had left him running to show his mother the bright red claw marks that the “kitty” had left on his little arms or legs.

            “Certainly some fight in this one. Does she have a name?” John asks, eyes still locked with the dark tabby. He watches her lay her ears back and bristle warningly as he waits for what he fully expects to be an uniquely creative and biting “no” from Finch. It does not come.

            “No as of yet, but she’s a recent arrival.” John turns back to Finch at the unexpected answer. “Oh? And you’ve named the rest then?” Reese asks, allowing a shade of genuine surprise to color his words. Finch draws himself up slightly in response to John’s tone.

            “Yes, in fact I _have_ , Mr. Reese. And before you say anything further, I do know the danger of naming and attachment, but they are rather a permanent fixture of the Library and it helps to tell them apart,” he snaps. John wonders idly when he began hearing the capital L in “the Library”, but lets it go. As much fun as it is to rile his employer, he knows it is best not to push the smaller man too far.

            For the next week, they are very busy, and John is rarely at the Library. When he does return it is only to reload and resupply on clean shirts. He has little time or attention to spare for the cats, but feels their eyes on him always.


	4. Part 4 - John & Ella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John asks Finch for the cats' names and gives one of his own.

_John: Part B_

            John is perched on a rooftop again, surveiling the current number’s 5th story apartment across the way. The sky is darkening and with the fading of the light, the temperature is beginning to drop. With the onset of night what had been a pleasant breeze at street level has become a continuous, cold, gusting wind. It whips at his upturned collar and presses against his coat, determined to chill him. His training urges him to ignore it, to push heedlessly onward… But he isn’t in the CIA any longer, and for the last two hours the number hasn’t done anything more interesting than turn the pages of his novel and occasionally reach for a sip of expensive red wine. John is cold. He could use something to distract him.

He taps his earpiece, opening the line.

            “Finch,” he says, knowing that the man is already monitoring the line.

            “Yes, Mr. Reese?” Finch’s answer comes crisp and expectantly.

            “What are their names?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “The cats, Finch. You said the rest had names.”

            “Ah….That … I hadn’t realized you were so interested Mr. Reese.” The sound of genuine surprise in Finch’s voice is laden with equal measures of caution and suspicion.

            “Well… As fascinating a rooftop as this is, our man isn’t exactly putting on a riveting performance right now. I’ve got a moment. Besides, it’s supposed to be good to get to know those you work alongside, isn’t it?” John couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth, visualizing with perfect clarity the slightly squinty expression that would surely be on Finch’s face. He’d be frowning slightly, lips pressed thing and brow furrowed as he tried to discern his employee’s true intentions.

            “Very well, Mr. Reese,” Finch decides to humor him, “I’ll be sure to introduce you properly at some point. I’m sure you’ll find you all have a great deal in common.” John’s smirk widens minutely, entirely unperturbed by his employer’s implication that he was a stray animal. There is more truth there than Finch likely meant to allude to, and in any case Finch is certainly right about one thing – John certainly enjoys toying with his employer as much as a cat loves toying with its prey.

            “Maybe. So are you going to tell me, or do I have to start guessing?”

            “But of course Mr. Reese,” Finch answers primly and John hears him strike a few keys on his keyboard in the moment of silence before he resumes speaking. Clik-click-clack, and he begins listing names and descriptions. Suddenly the tables have turned and John is the one who finds himself surprised. It isn’t that John didn’t believe his employer before when he said that all the cat’s had names- more that he hadn’t realized how precisely the man knows each one, or simply how many there are. John has been aware of the cats, but either he’s been far less observant than he thought, or the cat’s have been deliberately hiding from him.

            Milo was a ragged calico that got into fights outside, returning to the library to lick his wounds atop the empty returns cart at least two nights a week. Ginger was, (as one might expect,) a small, wiry female with a short, ginger coat. She could be found patrolling the upper floors in the early morning. Clark and Bruce were both yellow, and slightly longer haired than you expected of a street cat. Finch believed they were litter mates, abandoned when they couldn’t be found a home. They were both rather bold and John had already seen them in many places around the library, seemingly unconcerned of the two humans present. John also notes that their names are almost certainly a reference to DC Comics’ iconic characters, surprisingly mainstream for what he would have otherwise expected from Finch.

In fact, John is surprised that they aren’t all named after great literary figures. He isn’t entirely disappointed however, as Finch soon comes to Chaucer and Atticus, a mixed-blood Persian and a chocolate tabby with dark glasses markings, respectively.

“And the dark tabby in the stacks?” John enquires when Harold’s list trails off. “You said she hadn’t been named yet?”

The order is carefully random, but John would suspect that Charlotte and Quentin were Finch’s favorites, even if he hadn’t seen how they hung so closely around his workspace, simply from the detail in finch’s description of their markings and habits.

“Yes, she’s a recent arrival, and I haven’t quite found that right one yet.”

“Hmm…” John mutters. But before he can suggest any names to make appropriate fun of Finch and his literary fixation, there is a knock on the number’s apartment door. They both snap back to business in an instant, and the conversation is dropped.

That night John returns to the library to compare notes with Finch. Instead of going straight over to his desk though, John detours over to the edge of the stacks, having caught a glimpse of sharp green eyes peeking between dusty book spines. He holds out a hand, deliberately not reaching into the opening, just waiting patiently with his hand out about a foot in front of the shelf. On his palm is a scrap of cold roast beef he’d liberated from a catered event he crashed earlier that afternoon. During a lull in the gunfire he’d stalked past an abandoned plate holding a half constructed sandwich on the edge of the buffet and inspiration had struck.

He waits.

With the utmost caution, a pointed black nose peeks out into the light, sniffing delicately at the air. John remains still and silent, resisting the urge to flinch at the rough tickle of the tongue that eventually flicks across his palm. When the meat is gone, he does not draw back. He remains, calm and unwavering. Waiting to see what will happen, but equally alert and ready to snatch his hand back in case it’s decided that his continued presence is unwelcome. Focused as he is, he nearly humps when a soft head bumps against his knuckles. A quiet purr resonates momentarily in the silence, and then she is gone.

Finch looks on appraisingly through the whole encounter and when John finally approaches his boss, he offers only a pointedly raised eyebrow and a dry “Currying favor with your coworkers, Mr. Reese?”

“Ella,” John says by way of answer. Finch’s second eyebrow rises to meet the first. “We’ll call her Ella.”

Finch lowers his brows and turns back to his computer.

“Very well, Mr. Reese,” Finch says, and spares his employee a final, thoughtful glance before announcing that they’ve just received another number.

Finch hadn’t been wrong in his assertion that John would find common ground with his “coworkers”. It had taken weeks for Charlotte and Huey to warm up to Finch, but less than two days after Ella had been christened, Finch watched her emerge from the stacks at the sound of John ascending the stairs. Harold suspected that the Ex Op and the dark tortie had come to some sort of understanding, but he was shocked o see her saunter up to meet the tall man at the top of the stairs and wind affectionately between his legs. She gave a small meow of greeting, before continuing on her way across the floor. Even more surprising was the way John stopped instantly, but casually, like he was expecting her and taking care not to trip. In the days and weeks that followed it became a routine. Reese would arrive, Ella would say hello, and Finch would brief him on the next case.

Their acquaintance goes further though. Finch will sometimes catch John straying into the stacks. Wandering deep in the rows of dusty shelves where he knows the cats hunt mice and other pests - for which he is grateful of course. It wouldn’t do to have them chewing up the Library. It’s just that it’s somewhat unsetting to have the ex-assassin lurking out of sight, no matter how Finch has come to trust, rely on, and perhaps even befriend him. And no matter how he tries, Finch can’t help the little chill that runs up his spine when Mr. Reese emerges from the stacks an hour after vanishing, Ella in tow.

They make an eerily well matched pair, both dark, with a pale blaze at their throats, and they wear identical expressions – the look of successful hunters. Harold occasionally sees it when Reese returns to the library after a chase, but seeing it alongside Ella as she’s licking the blood from her fangs…

_Fluttering wings. Escape. Claws, blood, desperation. Hands around his fragile neck explosion slamming him against theferrydockdooframeFinch! Clawsbloodfearpain “Harold!”_

John is across the room, watching him, not like a hunter, but with poorly hidden concern. There is a beat, and then John opts for professionalism.

“Do you have access to King’s computer yet?” _Read: Are you all right?_

“Yes, just a moment to hop his company’s poor excuse for a firewall…” And he’s back, resuming the typing he hadn’t known he’d stopped.

Indeed, John and the cats have far more in common than Harold had meant, when he’d flippantly suggested the comparison.

Sharp, deadly hunters of the finest caliber.

Abandoned. Lost, adrift.

 Found. Home - if not a particularly conventional one.

Burned before, careful with their trust, wary.

Honest in their intentions, devoted.

Found, but no less fierce than when they fought daily for their lives.

Found and fiercely loyal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allright, so that's a wrap!
> 
> However- When I asked my two best friends (who are not POI watchers) for a better tittle for the story the best thing I got was "Meow Meow Motherfuckers" and although I rejected it as a tittle, I have promised to write an epilogue for this story entitled and incorporating the phrase- so there will be one more part! 
> 
> Fair warning though, it may be a while, as I haven't even finished outlining it.


End file.
